Savior

Words: 1215

Paul watched the reflection of the candle's flame cast a glow on Sarah's red hair. It shines just like an angel's aura, he thought. Her pale skin was a white light in the dark; she looked so sweet when the shadows hid the scars on her cheeks. It's a pity, the scars, Paul thought. Sometimes the girl needed to learn, though. He helped her to grow. To be a better person. Paul smiled at her from across the table. She smiled at him.

"Tell me about your day, Sarah." He tasted his wine from the crystal glass, pleased with how smoothly it wet his tongue. Just as nicely as the two glasses before it.

Sarah slid a picture toward him. Chains around her wrists grew taut and her hand was stopped after covering only half the distance. Paul found himself frowning at the sound of metal grating against his table. It was also a pity she needed to wear those chains. But it was for his own good. He could not risk her trying to run away. "I drew this for you," she said. "It's us."

He was the taller figure wearing blue pants and a lavender shirt. The smaller figure wore a long blue dress. The background was a scribble of black. It had been awhile since her eyes had gazed upon true light. It had been awhile since she gazed upon anything beyond the walls of this prison he had created for her. In the picture she held a flower in her hand. It looked withered to Paul.

"Why has your flower died," he asked her, turning his attention away from the paper to her precious face.

"It misses the sun," she confessed, afraid to meet his eyes. A soft chuckle reached her ears and she smiled at him then, the flame sparkling in her green eyes.

The mood was interrupted by sounds of glass shattering. Someone yelled. Sarah thought they may have said her name. Paul moved quickly, sliding his gun from the holster which was concealed beneath his gray blazer. On his feet in an instant he threw his back to the wall and peered into the living room. Sarah had crept beneath the table, making no more sound than the clunk of her chains. She was a good kid. Any other child would have made more noise. Probably scream.He hated it when they screamed.

The people in his living room were so much less courteous. There was shouting; more glass breaking. Someone yelled "FBI!"

The first agent to turn the corner took a bullet in the throat and fell with a horrible, guttural sound. Paul would kill each of the motherfuckers who wanted to take Sarah from him; he'd send them all straight to hell. He fired again. The bullet shattered something in the other room. He'd get his vengeance for that too.

More shouting. "Paul Walker you are under arrest for the kidnapping of Sarah Bingham! Put your weapon down!"

Sarah watched the bullet put a hole in the smooth surface of Paul's forehead. Such a small thing that ended his life; a small hole that seemed to, for a moment, stop time. And then set it racing again as if someone had taken their finger off the pause button. Paul's body hit the wall with amazing force before it folded onto the floor. A woman knelt down in front of Sarah and said her name. Sarah stared at Paul as his blood crept along the wooden floor in thin red fingers. Paul's dead eyes stared back as if daring her to scream; she would not. He hated it when she was loud.

"Sarah?"

Sarah closed her eyes and when she hugged her knees to her chest, the chains scraped into the delicate wrists. She did not care. She wished they would go away. It was always quiet when Paul was there.

"Sarah, my name is Clarisse and I'm here to help you. You don't need to be afraid anymore. We'll get you out of here."

The room was suddenly full of too many people. They swarmed around him, around her. Someone had cut her free. They told her that her parents were outside waiting for her. She tried to remember what they looked like. The image of Paul laying lifeless on the floor clouded her vision. She wanted to run to him. She needed to tell him she was sorry or he'd be mad. Slowly she emerged from beneath the table and the room grew silent as they watched the little girl.

Clarisse pulled Sarah's bruised body into a deep maternal embrace. Sarah wanted to bury her face in the warmth of Clarisse's blonde curls. She smelled like flowers, strange spices and everything good. Sarah felt sorrow tug at her exhausted body; she wanted to remember the faces of her parents. The woman picked Sarah up and held her tight. So very tight, Sarah could have melted into that warmth. But then she remembered. Sarah began to feel sick on the scent of her perfume. It was sweet and cloying; it filled her nose and mouth and choked her. She was drowning. Clarisse's arms held her too tightly, squeezing out her breath and life.

They were not here to help her.

"They want to hurt us, Sarah. They want to hurt you." Sarah heard Paul's warning in her mind. She had asked him why they cannot ever go outside. Why he hid her from the sun. She remembered how she had cried and how he had hugged her. "I won't let them hurt you." And now he was dead. Killed by them. Who would save her now?

Sarah gouged her fingers into Clarisse's brown eyes, clawing, screaming, shaking. She felt the horrible embrace weaken and then the ground was beneath her. Commotion surrounded her on all sides as the crowd of strangers began to shout again. Why wouldn't they just be quiet now? Sarah saw them coming toward her too quickly, and she had no where to hide from their horrible grasping fingers. She wanted to tell them to go away but terror choked her. She ran toward him, toward Paul, and threw her small body on top of his. It was still warm. She could smell the wine mixed with the scent of the blood that stained his face, his clothes, the floor. She wanted to hold his hand and tell him that she was sorry. She reached for it and grasped something cold. Hard. It was his final defense and hers. The gun.

Sarah grasped the weapon in her shaking hands and raised it. The shouting had reached a horrible crescendo now; it rolled through her mind like an angry ocean. She had to make them stop. They killed Paul and now they wanted to kill her. She turned the gun. The darkness of the barrel stared at her. Sarah's fingers curled tightly around the trigger. She pulled.

Bang.

Her body flew back from the impact of the shot, the gun falling from her fingers. Somebody screamed. It was all a haze now. Darkness spread across her vision like ink on paper. It seeped inside - complete.

The world was finally quiet.